inch, to the vertical. An hour more and an old
cotton staysail, folded in half along the center
seam, is hoisted.
A reliable mast at last! One that can stand
up to all the sail I can string from it! That
night I drink rum and milk in celebration of
hope reborn.
I am only too conscious that December 24
is Christmas Day across the Date Line in
Australia. Mine is a white Christmas. I toss a
Christmas dinner of crumbled crackers to
the friendly ice birds. My own bonus is a
clearing sky and the first good navigation
sights in ten days. If progress continues at this
rate-and the strong boom mast is the best
guarantee-Ice Bird and I will reach land
well before freeze-up. I have the chance of a
future after all.
AS ICE BIRD CREEPS eastward into the
new year, the question of destination
becomes crucial. I decide to make for the
U. S. base, Palmer Station, instead of the
British Argentine Islands Station. They are
only 40 miles apart, but Palmer is infinitely
easier of access.
But can I dry out the sodden charts enough
for them to be usable? Will an unreliable
compass and an uncorrected wristwatch suf
fice for a fearfully difficult landfall? Will my
drinking water hold out?
On January 18 we pass Cape Horn. What
matter if it lies 360 miles to the north? I have
"rounded" it under sail and am entitled to
traditional privileges like toasting the Queen's
health with one foot on the table. Not very
elegantly, however. My clothing is rank with
the smell of stale urine. My insulated boots
have been worn day and night for two months.
For a few days I have had welcome com
pany, two sei whales, whom I name Sniffy
and Snuffy. They are about Ice Bird's size
and weave across her bow. After nine days
they depart, taking with them my flock of ice
birds. I alter course sharply south toward
Palmer Station, now 300 miles away.
As we continue southward, black-and
white Commerson's dolphins play alongside
and unfamiliar large petrels appear overhead.
Three icebergs float by-brilliant sugar icing
on a blue, white-flecked sea. The flaming
colors of sunset to starboard merge without a
break into the tints of dawn to port.
Again the angry sea tries to turn me back.
Head winds spring up. Snow showers begin.
"My paper on Polynesian
astronomy is being
read before The Royal
Society in London today!"
819